


Need

by TanyaReed



Category: Relic Hunter
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanyaReed/pseuds/TanyaReed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was written around 2006.  Nigel is the only person Sydney trusts enough to see her weaknesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you think we'll fit in there?” Nigel asked Sydney doubtfully as the two of them stared at a small tunnel into the earth.

“Sure we will,” she said confidently.

“I don't know, Syd. People were smaller back then. It's awfully narrow.”

Nigel eyed her just as she gave him an expressive eyeroll. He noted that she was dusty from the climb and there was a smudge of dirt across her cheek. Somehow, those small imperfections made him feel better.

“All right, but you first.”

She smiled at him fondly, her expression immediately changing. He was quite convinced that she used that exasperated look as a tool, much like her wheedling and ordering, but he didn't really mind. Sometimes he even liked feigning reluctance just to see what she would do to convince him. This was not one of those times, however.

Without a second thought, Sydney began crawling into the hole. It was so small that she had to lay on her stomach and wriggle forward. Nigel watched her until the soles of her boots disappeared from sight.

He waited a moment longer than necessary before sighing and bending to follow her.

The tunnel was as cramped as he had feared. He could feel the earth pressing down on him and grit drifted down into his eyes, up his nose, and into his mouth. His sides scraped against the tunnel walls, and he knew his clothes would be unsalvageable.

It was also completely dark. If not for the noises from ahead, he could have believed he was alone. His stomach fluttered at the thought.

“Syd?” His voice echoed hollowly.

“I've reached the end, Nigel,” she said, and suddenly a light shone in the darkness. He blinked in its glow, his eyes watering.

Encouraged, Nigel wriggled and pulled himself along the tunnel, ignoring the smarting in his palms.

A few minutes later, he pulled himself out of the hole and into a large chamber.

Sydney was standing nearby with her torch in her hand. Its light flickered eerily on the earthen walls. Nigel followed the light along its path and felt a grin suddenly pass over his face.

“There.”

“Good eyes, Nigel.”

Sydney hurried forward and brushed dirt away gently. Underneath it, a beautiful urn began to emerge.

As Nigel watched Sydney, his excitement grew. This was always his favorite part of a hunt. He felt a thrill to see something no other eyes had seen for hundreds of years. It always amazed him and filled him with wonder.

He glanced at Sydney, seeing the same wonder come to her face. Nigel loved watching her when she discovered a relic. It was almost like a light came on in her eyes, making them glow with joy.

“Look, Nigel,” she said. “The lost Urn of...”

Nigel was jerked from sleep by the loud ring of the phone beside his bed. He groaned and pulled one of his pillows over his head, trying to drown out the sound so he could go back to sleep.

He was having such a nice dream. In it, he and Sydney had been on a hunt. It had been so real, he could still see her triumphant smile, still smell the faint apple scent of her shampoo. Nigel sighed. It seemed that almost every night he dreamed of the hunt and woke up with a terrible longing to go home.

The phone refused to be ignored. After about five rings, Nigel gave up and tossed aside his pillow. Grumpily, he rolled towards his bedside table and reached for the phone. His blearily blinking eyes noticed that his clock read 2 am.

“If that's you, Preston, I'm going to strangle you,” he mumbled, picking up the receiver. Then, slightly louder, a sleepy, “Hello?”

“Nigel?”

He was instantly fully awake. This wasn't Preston calling for some inane purpose or one of Nigel's acquaintances calling for a Saturday night lift from a pub. This was important. It had to be important. It was her.

“Sydney?”

“Nigel, I'm so glad you're there.” Her voice sounded strange—strained in some way.

“Where else would I be on a Saturday night?” he asked glibly, rubbing an eye with his fist.

“Did I wake you?”

There was an almost wistful quality to the question so Nigel lied, “No, of course not. I was just reading.”

“Good.” Then, a pause. Nigel sat up, listening intently. There had to be a good reason for Sydney to be calling him that late. “I'm in London. At Heathrow.” Another pause. “Can I...Can I come over?

The hesitation Nigel heard in her voice was so unlike Sydney that Nigel was immediately worried. If he had harboured any further thoughts of sleep, they fled. 

“Do you need me to pick you up?”

“No, I'll take a cab. I'll see you soon.”

Nigel hung up the phone and jumped to his feet. It had been over six months since Sydney's last visit, and he missed her terribly. Phone and computer chats just couldn't replace being face to face. More and more lately, he was regretting accepting that teaching job two years before, and he was seriously considering quitting and asking Sydney to take him back—if she'd have him.

Determined to be presentable when she got there, Nigel hopped in the shower. He was just finishing getting dressed afterward when his doorbell rang.

The sound made his stomach flip flop. Seeing Sydney was always a treat, and the last time she had come her visit had been way too short.

Nigel hurried down the stairs to the front door and opened it, unable to keep a smile from spreading all over his face.

She was standing in the rain, her hair damp and clinging. She was dressed in her hunting clothes and she wasn't even wearing a jacket. Her satchel hung limply off of her shoulder, as soaked as she was. A look of frustration and discouragement was on her face, but it vanished when she saw Nigel. It was replaced with warmth.

“Hey, Nige.”

“Sydney, don't stand out there. You'll catch your death!”

He reached out and gently grabbed her arm, pulling her out of the rain.

She smiled then, and it lit up her eyes. “You're not mad at me for coming so late?”

“You know I'm always glad to see you.” He closed the door firmly, locking wind and rain outside.

“Thanks.” He could tell she meant it. In fact, she looked rather weary, he thought. There were dark circles under her eyes, and trickles of water trailed down her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “It's just...can I sit down?”

Nigel shook his head. “Where are my manners? Sorry, Syd. Have a seat here, and I'll be right back.”

He indicated his sofa, then hurried off to get a towel, some clothes he thought might fit her, and a very hot cup of coffee. When he got back, she was thumbing through a book on his coffee table. Little tremors of her body showed she was chilled, and he couldn't help but notice how closely her black vest clung.

“No catching pneumonia on my watch,” he said, handing her the towel and clothes. Sydney began undressing without preamble. Nigel watched her for a moment, his mouth falling slightly open before remembering himself and turning around.

“Dry is definitely better,” Sydney commented. He could hear her teeth chattering.

“And this should help as well,” he said, holding up the coffee.

His hand lightened as she took it. “You're an angel.”

“So I've been told.”

Sydney chuckled and the sound warmed him. Then, suddenly, she was wrapping her arms around him in a firm hug. Nigel was so startled at the gesture that he was glad he no longer held the coffee.

“I've missed you, Nigel,” she said softly. Her voice sounded rather sad so he gently patted her arm.

“I miss you too, Syd. Relic hunting with you was a big part of my life. I wish you'd come visit more.”

“The planes fly both ways.” Her breath ruffled his hair and tickled his cheek.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

She held on to him for a moment longer before sighing and noisily plunking herself back on the sofa. Facing her, Nigel noticed that she had avoided the wet patch left by her body when she first came inside.

“Yeah, and I'm sorry about your couch.”

Nigel regarded her a moment as she took a huge gulp of the coffee. She looked unlike herself sitting there in his pajamas bottoms and a t-shirt, her hair in dark tangles around her face. Softer somehow.

He pushed that thought away as he bent to pick up her wet clothes and towel. “Don't worry. It'll dry. Speaking of dry...”

He was about to leave the room to take her clothes to the laundry room when her voice stopped him.

“Leave the clothes, Nigel. Come sit with me.” He hesitated, so she added, “Please.”

Needing no more encouragement, Nigel hung her clothes over the back of the nearest chair and went to join her on the sofa. Looking into her face, he was once more struck by how weary she looked. If he were anyone else, Nigel might not have noticed, but he had spent years reading her face.

“Sydney,” he said, “What's happened?”

Her eyes dropped to the mug. “I...I think I've failed.”

Nigel sucked in a breath. It was not like Sydney to admit defeat. In fact, Nigel could remember several times when it appeared that they had lost and all that waited was death, and Sydney hadn't even hesitated. She never gave up.

“Come now, it can't be so bad.” He heard his mother's words coming from his mouth as he reached forward and gently took the cup from her hands. It made a slight ting as he set it on the coffee table.

She raised her eyes to meet his. In an echo of his thoughts, she said, “I'm not used to failure.”

“Tell me about it,” he encouraged.

He wanted to touch her. This wasn't unusual. In a secret part of himself, he always wanted to touch her. Now, he wanted to gently brush hair off of her forehead and cup her cheek with his palm. Instead, he just gazed at her steadily, willing her to speak.

“I'm on a hunt...or I was on a hunt. But it went wrong, Nigel. It all went wrong.”

She wrenched herself from the sofa and started pacing. Water made a soft pattering noise on the carpet as it dripped from her hair. Watching her, Nigel couldn't help but think it couldn't have gone too wrong. She was there in front of him. Uninjured. His greatest fear for the past seven years was that one day Sydney's luck would run out.

“He was here in England...I know he was. I followed him here, but I don't know where he is now. And Carmen's dead...”

“Carmen Facey?”

But she didn't seem to hear him. “And the next piece of the puzzle is gone...I was too late...”

“Sydney, you've been in places where the trail was hard to follow before.”

“Yes,” she agreed, rubbing a hand over her forehead, “But I'm out of ideas. I've tried everywhere I thought he could be. None of my contacts have seen him. None of his contacts have seen him. It's like he wasn't even here. And every time I close my eyes, I see Carmen's body....You know I'm no stranger to death, Nigel, but I've never seen anything like this. Her throat was ripped out, and there was blood everywhere.”

She looked down at her hands and Nigel followed her gaze. They were clenched so tightly, the knuckles were white.

“Okay,” he said, “why don't you start at the beginning?”

She nodded absently, unclenching her hands. “That would be logical, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, it would,” he agreed. “Come. Sit back down. Drink your coffee and tell me what happened.”

Without argument, she returned to the couch settling beside him. She sat closer than she needed too, close enough that he could feel her body heat and smell her hair. It smelled as it had in his dream.

“I knew calling you was the right thing to do,” she said before sighing and letting herself fall against the back of the sofa. 

Nigel felt highly pleased at this, and he smiled as he handed her the coffee mug. She wrapped her hands around it tightly as if to absorb comfort.

“It started a couple of days ago,” she began. “Carmen came to see me at the university. She had come across something she didn't know what to do with, so she brought it to me for help.”

Carmen Facey was another relic hunter, one that had started out on the shady side, mentoring with Kurt Reiner. Then, she had fallen for a museum curator named John Brown that they were supposed to be stealing from, and she switched sides. From what Nigel had heard of her over the past year, she had since become dedicated to retrieving relics for study and for museums. Nigel had met her once before what Sydney called her “conversion”, and he knew Sydney had seen her maybe two or three times since.

Sydney paused to take a sip of her coffee. Nigel studied her but remained silent as he waited for her to continue.

“You heard that Alec Ryan died?” Sydney glanced at him, and he nodded. The millionaire's death had made all the papers. Ryan was well known for researching an ancient cult that was often discounted in academic circles due to lack of proof. “Well, he left his research to John because John had helped him out in the past. Ryan was very close to proving the Group of Ten's existence.”

Nigel felt himself pale. Despite the fact that, if the group existed, it had disappeared hundreds of years before, the Group of Ten was something Nigel would have preferred to remain a myth. It was a group that worshiped death. It believed that a blissful state of darkness and nothingness was perfection. Because of this, they became experts on death, mostly on causing it. They killed people just to watch them die, believing they were viewing a person's most holiest moment.

“Not only that, he also found a clue that the group was searching for La Mort Rapide.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “Rapid death? As in mythical amulet created by a French sorcerer to destroy entire cities?”

“Ryan believed they had found it.”

Nigel already didn't like where this was headed. Death was in Sydney's story a little too frequently and the hunt hadn't even started yet.

“Ryan's papers pointed us to Glasgow. The night before we were supposed to leave, Carmen was attacked. By Morgan Lewis.”

Nigel knew Morgan Lewis. He was a particularly nasty relic hunter who made Dash Palmerston look like a gentle kitten. 

“He took Ryan's research. Knowing he was headed for Glasgow, we took off after him.”

“Once in Glasgow, we split up. We were supposed to meet at the hotel for dinner to compare notes. When Carmen didn't arrive, I got worried and went hunting. I found her in an alley...”

Nigel felt a tremor go through Sydney's body, and he didn't think this one was from cold.

“I found the lair of the Circle of Ten, but it had been defaced. Everything was destroyed. Lewis had been there first and wanted to make sure I wouldn't follow. But he dropped something...”

Sydney got up, placing her mug on the coffee table. She made her way to her soaked and rumpled clothing. She dug through her pockets for a moment before coming up with a sodden piece of paper. This, she handed to Nigel. It was a London phone number.

“So, I came to London. I've questioned my contacts; I've questioned his contacts; I've phoned the number. Nothing. I had gone back to the airport, ready to take a plane to Paris to see if any of my contacts there had heard from him, when...”

“When?”

She knelt beside him, placing her hand gently on his knee. “I decided I had to see you.”

He put his hand over hers and gave it a soft squeeze. “I'm glad you're here.”

She shifted to sit on the floor beside him, her back against the sofa. 

They sat in silence for several moments before Nigel realized that he might have the answer she craved. He debated waiting until morning to tell her, but his respect for her won out.

“Sydney?”

“Yes?”

“I think I might know who Lewis came to London to see.”

She threw him a startled glance. “Who?”

“His name's Nathan Turnbull. He's a writer who lives not far from here.” 

“A writer?” Her brow drew together. “I don't understand.”

“He takes old legends, researches them meticulously, then fictionalizes them. He's well known in British academic circles because he's always digging for some fact or another. His last book was called Le Sorcier. In fact,” Nigel felt himself blushing, “I have a copy.”

A hint of a smile touched her features. “Any good?”

“His historical accuracy is excellent,” Nigel said, feeling his face grow even warmer, though he didn't know why he should be embarrassed about owning an adventure book.

The hint turned into a genuine smile, reaching Sydney's eyes.

“In it, he tells the life of Le Sorcier. Most of it is romanticized, but a lot of it is accurate despite that. There's not much about La Mort Rapide in it. It's more about the sorcerer's other supposed achievements. Even so, Turnbull's probably the most knowledgeable person on the subject at this moment.”

“Then, this Turnbull is probably who Lewis came to see.” Nigel could hear the excitement in her voice. “Good work, Nigel!”

He felt ridiculously pleased at her praise.

Sydney quickly got to her feet. Nigel could tell she was ready to jump back into her black clothes and slip out into the night.

“Sydney?” he said again.

“What?”

“You can't go see Turnbull now. It's 3:30 am.”

“It is?”

Nigel nodded to the grandfather clock in the corner. Sydney's face fell when she saw that he was right. 

“But you're welcome to spend what's left of the night. I've got a spare room, and you're already in pajamas.”

She stood completely still for a moment, chewing her lip. Then, she admitted, “I haven't been sleeping much. Between following Lewis and...Carmen...”

The sight of Carmen's body must have been even worse than Sydney had said for her to be affected this deeply. She had once seen a man decapitated by headhunters, and it hadn't made her this pale and haunted. 

He got up and said gently, “Come to bed, Syd.”

The weariness had settled back on her face, and Nigel was glad he hadn't told her about Turnbull during the day. Then, she would have been running around, trying to find La Mort Rapide without a thought for her own rest or safety.

Nigel led Sydney upstairs and to the spare room.

“Good night, Syd. Sleep well.”

“Thanks, Nige,” she replied, suddenly pulling him in for his second hug of the evening. Nigel let himself enjoy this one more, since he wasn't quite as worried. She was warm instead of cold now...and she felt like home. “For everything.”

“Anytime. We always did make a pretty good team.”

When she pulled from him, she gazed directly into his face, her expression unreadable. Then, she leaned forward and, for the briefest instant, pressed her lips to his. Shocked, Nigel didn't even have time to react before Sydney had disappeared into the spare room.

Watching the closed door, Nigel raised a hand to his lips. He found his heart was suddenly beating wildly, and his face was flushed. Sydney had kissed him! He carried this thought with him to his room across the hall, and it warmed him as he undressed and pulled on his pajama bottoms. It stayed with him as he shut off the light and crawled between his cool silk sheets. Even then, he could feel the firmness of her body against his and the softness of her lips. Smiling to himself, Nigel snuggled into his blankets.

He was almost asleep when there was a soft knock on his door. “Nigel?”

“Yes, Syd?”

The door opened and he could see her form outlined faintly in the moonlight coming from his slightly parted curtains. 

“Can I sleep with you?”

“With me?” He sat up quickly.

“I can't sleep. I can't seem to relax, and I thought maybe...well...if I wasn't alone...”

Throwing propriety to the wind, Nigel said, “Sure. It'll be like old times. Plenty of room.”

She moved through the darkness towards him as silently as a ghost. He watched her slip in beside him and pull the covers up to her chin.

“Comfy?”

“Very. How come your bed is more comfortable than the spare? If I'd known that, I would have been sleeping here every time I came to visit.”

“I'll remember you said that next time,” he teased.

She chuckled in the darkness before going quiet. Nigel waited so long for her to speak again that he thought she had gone to sleep.

He was just about to follow her when she said, “I'm sorry...I mean, about tonight.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. For being weak. For acting like a fool. For needing...”

He reached out and took her hand. Giving it a squeeze, he replied, “Everyone's allowed to be human, Sydney. Even you.”

She returned the squeeze and then, almost immediately, her breathing deepened, and she dropped into sleep. Nigel stayed awake a little longer, listening to her breathe. Slowly, the sound lulled him into sleep. He slept better than he had for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

Sydney came to awareness slowly. She felt warm and cozy and well rested. This was an uncommon feeling lately, but her sleepy brain couldn't quite grasp why.

There was a warm body beside her. She rolled towards it, snuggling into the warmth. A familiar scent surrounded her, one that tugged at her, and one that she had been missing. 

Nigel.

The thought brought her instantly awake. The feeling and smell of Nigel didn't fade out as it usually did when she dreamed of him. He was real and solid against her.

She lay there in the weak morning light, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the light rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. It was so pleasant that she didn't want to get up.

Even so, she knew she had work to do. Thanks to Nigel, she had another lead on Morgan Lewis. With luck, she would catch him before he found La Mort Rapide and used it for nefarious purposes. If it existed, it was way too dangerous to let fall into the hands of a madman, especially one that was capable of doing what Lewis did to Carmen Facey.

The thought of Carmen's mutilated body caused her to shudder slightly, but she felt more removed from it than she had for days. Sydney wasn't sure whether that was because she had talked it out, because she had slept well, or because of Nigel. Whatever it was, she had once more found her perspective. 

“Thank you, Nigel,” she whispered.

As if he heard her, he grunted in his sleep, but his deep breathing didn't change.

After two years, she was not surprised to discover that she still needed him. She would probably always need him. His logic was the perfect counterpoint to her intuition, his knowledge of certain ancient cultures surpassed hers, and it was nice to know someone you could trust completely was always at your back. Maybe that's why she had kissed him. Vulnerability was not a common feeling for Sydney, and any other man would have seen weakness and attacked. Not Nigel. He just acknowledged that Sydney was human and continued to be his incredibly sweet self.

It had hurt when he left, she admitted to herself. It hurt more than she could let her pride show him. In the back of her mind somewhere, she'd always known the day would come. After all, no matter how much they enjoyed working together, being her TA was Nigel's job. Nobody stayed at the same job forever. Unfortunately, her heart had apparently refused to believe that.

Sydney allowed herself to run a gentle hand over his chest. He still felt the same. This could have been any morning during the five years they worked together.

But it wasn't.

Reluctantly, Sydney pulled away, her body protesting the sudden lack of warmth. She paused for a moment, hovered over him, watching him sleep. She considered waking him, but he looked so peaceful that she just couldn't do it. Instead, she kissed him on the forehead and slipped as quietly as she could from the bed.

Once out of the bedroom, Sydney's mind immediately moved forward to what she had to do. First, she had to eat, brush her hair, and dress. Then, she had to find out where this writer lived and pay him a visit.

She took as little time as possible getting ready and was careful not to make too much noise. Once her mundane tasks were done, she looked up Turnbull's address and wrote Nigel a note. 

Putting down the pen afterward, she allowed herself a soft smile. “Until we meet again, my friend.”

Turnbull lived as close as Nigel had said. Sydney didn't even have to call a cab to go to his home. Instead, she walked in the misty early morning. She wished that she had thought to bring a jacket, but was glad that the rain had slowed to a mere drizzle.

The walk to Turnbull's house took about ten minutes. Standing on his doorstep, waiting for an answer, Sydney rubbed arms that were once again feeling chilled.

The door was opened by a diminutive old man who squinted at her suspiciously. “Yes?”

“Good morning. I'd like to speak to Nathan Turnbull, please.”

The old man raised his wisps of eyebrows. “Mr. Turnbull doesn't usually entertain at this hour of the morning.”

“It's important,” she assured him.

“Very well. Who shall I tell him is calling?”

“My name is Sydney Fox. I'm interested in something he's recently become an expert in.”

If the old man recognized her name, he gave no indication. “Wait here,” he said, closing the door in her face.

Sydney shivered in the dampness, wishing she had even thought to bring one of Nigel's jackets. She raked back her hair and tied it back with an elastic from her satchel.

To his credit, the butler wasn't gone long. He looked slightly friendlier as he said, “Mr. Turnbull will see you.”

He led her through a richly furnished foyer and into an equally opulent sitting room. Waiting for her was a young man who stood up when she entered. Nathan Turnbull was nothing like she expected. For one thing, he wasn't all that much older than the students in her introductory classes. For another, he was almost as tall as her father, and his shoulders must have been twice as wide. He looked more like a football player than a scholar and writer.

His face split into a grin. “Good morning, Professor Fox. I couldn't believe it when Ruggles told me who was at the door. I'm Nathan Turnbull. Pleased to meet you.”

He offered a hand that made hers look like a child's. She took it gingerly but needn't have worried as his grip was firm but gentle.

“I'm sorry to call so early,” she said, taking back her hand and flexing it to make sure it was in one piece.

“That's all right. I get up at six to write. I'm working on a book about the Star of Endostan right now. I was actually going to call you. I was hoping you could make me a copy of the thief's journal.”

“Actually, my former assistant has that. His name is Nigel Bailey. I'm sure he'd be happy to make you a copy.”

Turnbull's smile widened, if that were possible. “Great. Have a seat. Tell me how I can help you.”

Sydney sat on a nearby chair, conscious of what her wet clothing was doing to the upholstery. After making sure she was seated, he took a chair across from her.

“I'm in a bit of a bind, Mr. Turnbull. You see, I'm looking for a relic once owned by a man known as Le Sorcier...”

“You too!” He broke in. “Someone came to see me yesterday about Le Sorcier. Morgan Lewis, I think his name was. He needed some help with a document he had found that mentioned Le Sorcier.” The writer's face turned wistful. “It was a wonderful piece of work. I wish I'd seen it before I wrote my book.”

Sydney's stomach jumped at Turnbull's words, and she couldn't keep the excitement from her voice. “Do you have the document? Do you remember what he asked?”

“He kept the document with him. He was reluctant to even let me see it. Is this important?”

Sydney leaned forward. “Very important. That man wants to exploit La Mort Rapide. I want to find it before he can.”

“Well,” Turnbull tapped his lip. “There were two things he needed help with. Once was a place he'd never heard of. He wanted to know where it was and if I knew if Le Sorcier had ever been there. Also, there were instructions...in Le Sorcier's secret code.”

Sydney raised an eyebrow. “Secret code?”

“Yes.” The young man nodded. “And as far as I know, I'm the only one who's ever been able to crack it.”

“Do you remember the instructions?”

He smiled. “I wrote them down as I was figuring them out.”

With grace that was strange for one so large, Turnbull rose and made his way across the room to an antique mahogany desk. She watched as he rifled through the drawers, wondering how he'd become so interested in history. She also wondered if she could trust him, though he didn't seem to be shifty or hiding anything. 

“Here are the papers, Professor.”

Sydney rose and went to join him at the desk. What she saw looked like a jumble of words with no rhyme or reason. Puzzled, she shot Turnbull a glance.

“Don't worry. I'll make some sense of these for you. Do you have some time?”

“I'll make time. Can I have these?” She took one of the papers from his hand and studied it.

Gently, he took it back, though Sydney could feel the power in his hand. “I'd rather you didn't. I was keeping them for my sequel to Le Sorcier, since Lewis wouldn't sell me his monograph. I will make you copies, though. I have a copier.”

Sydney nodded in acceptance, and then listened closely as Turnbull explained his scratchings. She took notes, wishing Nigel were there so he could store it all in his brain. 

When he was finished, Turnbull asked, “Do you understand?”

She frowned. “I believe so.”

“If you need any help, be sure to call me. I'll write my number on your copy of the pages.”

“Thanks.” It was heartfelt. After all she'd been through, she was grateful to be on the trail again. With this information, she would not only nail Morgan for killing Carmen Facey, she'd also prevent him from unleashing the power of La Mort Rapide on the world.

“Anytime, Professor Fox. Are you sure this Bailey will make me a copy of the journal?”

At first she was puzzled, then remembered why Turnbull had initially been so happy to see her. “Just tell him I sent you. Now, tell me, the second part of what Lewis wanted to know. A place?”

“Oh, yes. Pres Herbeux See, I have it written right here.” He pointed to his papers.

Sydney drew her brow down in a frown. “Pres Herbeux?”

“I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It disappeared centuries ago. It was a very small town that Le Sorcier ruled over from his nearby castle. No one could tell me where it was, but after much research, I discovered that the ruins are located near today's Fleuve de Sang.”

Sydney didn't think she'd heard of that place either. “River of Blood? Charming.”

He grinned at her. “That's what I thought. Someday, I'm going to research the origin of that name and write a book about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go make those copies for you.”

Sydney nodded absently, her mind already miles ahead, somewhere in rural France. Thanks to Turnbull, she now had the pieces that would lead her to La Mort Rapide. All she had to do was get there before Lewis, which was going to be hard as he had at least half a day's head start. Even so, she'd faced worse odds, and now that she knew where she was going, she was confident that she could do what she had to do.

“River of Blood, here I come,” she whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

As Nigel woke, he immediately knew he was alone. Even before his brain returned to full consciousness, he knew the bed beside him was empty. The room was too quiet, the sheets were too cold.

He blinked his eyes open, wondering sleepily if the whole thing had been a dream. Had Sydney really been there or had his subconscious just given him another vision of home?

His hand reached up and rubbed the last of sleep from his eyes. He lay there, studying the shaft of late morning light that reached across the carpet to the bed. With his head turned this way, a faint scent drifted to his nose from the pillow beside his. At first, he thought he imagined it. Then, he brought it in close, burying his face in the pillowcase.

Sydney. It hadn't been a dream.

The realization made Nigel sit up. Where was she? He listened carefully but only silence met his ears. Now that he was sure it was real, his mind went over everything that happened the night before—Sydney's phone call and her arrival, the soft vulnerability in her expression when she admitted her failure, and the eagerness with which she wanted to rouse Nathan Turnbull from his bed at 3:30 in the morning. It was then that he knew where Sydney had disappeared to.

Nigel sighed as he got out of bed, wishing that Sydney had either woken him or waited for him. It had been so nice having her in his bed again, and he wanted to tell her. He also wanted to ask her to take him with her.

He didn't like the thought of Sydney on this hunt alone. Already, people were dead and, if Sydney's face had been any indication, Carmen's death had not been a pleasant one. What if Morgan Lewis decided to kill Sydney in that very same way? Sydney was usually able to take care of herself, but Nigel remembered a fight with Carmen and knew that she could too. Besides, if Morgan got to the amulet first, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him if he decided he wanted Sydney dead.

Nigel couldn't bear the thought of Sydney being brutally ripped from him, especially not now when he had decided that he wanted to go home with her.

He wasn't exactly sure when he had made his mind up about that. All he knew was that having Sydney come to him for help had reopened a wound he had been trying to mend with plaster promises and outright denial. He wanted to be with her again. He needed to be by her side, sharing her smiles and keeping her safe.

Not that it would be hard to leave his teaching job. He didn't like it all that much. He missed American students and their direct, probing, and sometimes improper questions. Plus, he had been homesick for Trinity and Sydney and relic hunting since the day he left them, and all he wanted was just to go back.

Of course, Sydney might not want him back. He knew that, but he also knew that she had come to him in her time of need. It took a lot of trust for someone like Sydney to admit that she was lost. That she had placed such trust in him made him feel honoured.

As these thoughts tumbled through his head, Nigel busied himself with getting ready. Though he hadn't made a conscious decision about it, he already knew what he was going to do. He was going after her. He was going to help her in her stand against Morgan Lewis and La Mort Rapide. 

He finished getting ready and hurried downstairs. A quick look out the window showed him an unpleasant gray drizzle. He'd definitely need a jacket.

After grabbing the jacket and a couple of crumpets for his breakfast, Nigel went to his sitting room to look up Nathan Turnbull's address. His stomach gave a strange tingle as he saw a piece of paper on his writing desk.

He dropped his jacket and snatched up the paper, reading the note written in Sydney's large and slightly messy hand:

_Nige,_

_Thank you so much for your help. I couldn't have figured it out without you. Sorry for acting like such an ass. I have to talk to Turnbull as early as I can if I want to catch up with Lewis. I didn't want to wake you. I hope I see you again soon. Remember what I said—the planes fly both ways._

_Love, Syd_

The words made him smile, and he carefully folded up the note and put it in his wallet. That way, even if he didn't catch up with her or he couldn't find her, she'd be with him.

Finding Turnbull's address was easier than he expected because Sydney had left the phone book open with Turnbull's address underlined in red near her note. Nigel gave it a quick scan, jammed a crumpet in his mouth, threw on his jacket, and headed out the door.

Turnbull's house was a quick walk over damp sidewalks. The mist was cold, but not overly unpleasant after the strong showers that had been the weather for the past couple of days. Even so, Nigel was thoroughly wet by the time he reached Turnbull's door. He eagerly bounded up the steps and prepared to chime the bell.

His questing hand stopped when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. A sense of foreboding stole over Nigel then as he remembered a time long before when he and Sydney had discovered something similar. He knew that this could be completely different, that someone might have entered or left in a hurry and forgotten to close the door all the way. After all, there were no scuff marks. His head told him this, but his instincts screamed at him. Working with Sydney had taught him to trust his instincts so, with trepidation, Nigel gently pushed open the door.

The house around him was silent—as silent as a tomb. Nigel pushed this thought away and called, “Hello? Mr. Turnbull? Your door was open.”

No answer came down the hushed hallways, and something deep inside of Nigel's stomach told him to run.

But Nigel wasn't the same man who went to work for Sydney seven years ago. He knew how to hold his fear close and subdue it to get the job done. Besides, if there were danger here, it might involve Sydney. He would never forgive himself if his fear led to her getting hurt.

Nigel hadn't gone much further when a tangy, familiar smell met his nose. His insides turned to ice as he recognized the scent as blood.

He opened the nearest door to see what had once been a pristine and opulent sitting room. Now, furniture was overturned, broken pictures were smashed on the floor, and papers were scattered. Through it all ran splashes of red, splashes that might have been paint but for their shade and the odor that came from them. 

The blood was everywhere. It stained the white carpet and traced patterns across the wall as if placed there by some demented modernist artist. Ivory upholstery was globbed with it and, in some places, the blood was still so wet Nigel could hear the patter as it dripped to the floor.

Nigel's stomach rebelled as his eyes took in more and more horror. He clamped his teeth tightly together, fighting the urge to be sick that welled up into his throat. Through a mind shocked into stillness, a thought struggled to the surface.

Was this Sydney's blood?

There was no body. Nigel's panicked eyes searched the room, looking for any evidence of a corpse. Denial bubbled up through the panic, and he knew that the blood couldn't be hers. It couldn't be because he refused to accept that possibility. Sydney had to be alive. For how long was the next question. Someone had ruthlessly murdered Carmen Facey and then, Nigel assumed, Nathan Turnbull had been murdered in the same way. Chances were it was Morgan Lewis and, because of something found in Alec Ryan's research or the headquarters of the Group of Ten, he was going around butchering anyone that that knew anything about La Mort Rapide. Sydney could be next, and there was no way in hell Nigel could allow that to happen. He would die first.

That's when Nigel noticed the crumpled papers by his feet. They were blood stained and in parts illegible, with one very clear large palm print through the middle, but he understood enough. These were the instructions Lewis had come to Turnbull to get. Chances were Sydney had discovered them as well.

Nigel sighed in relief. Now, he knew what to do. First, he had to make an anonymous phone call to the police. Then, he had to find his way to Fleuve de Sang, France.


	4. Chapter 4

Fleuve de Sang was more of a village than a town. Tucked away in farming country, it only had a few streets and looked as if it hadn't changed in centuries. Sydney stopped her rented car in front of the town's one inn, a large two story brick building with a wooden sign on iron hooks creaking in the breeze. It said “Repos Doux”.

Entering the inn, she saw the inside was done in dark mahogany with rich red accents. Behind the admittance desk stood a young man who looked to be about nineteen. He was tall with blond hair that flopped into his eyes.

“May I help you?” he asked in French.

“Yes,” she replied in the same language. “I would like a room, please. My name is Sydney Fox.”

She gave him her credit card and he gave her her room number and key. Once inside, she took out her phone and dialed Turnbull's number. There was something that had been niggling her about his notes.

Sydney listened with a frown as the phone rang five times. Not wanting to give up, she let it ring another four before snapping it closed.

She decided to have a shower since she hadn't taken the time to have one at Nigel's that morning. After that, she planned on asking the locals if they remembered seeing Morgan come through. Maybe she'd even be lucky enough to get a guide to the castle so she wouldn't have to try to find her way on her own. Someone in the town had to know where the ruins were located.

Once clean, she combed her hair and brought it up into the simple ponytail she preferred when hunting. Her satchel contained a change of clothes, so she donned those, hoping she'd have time to wash the others. Then, she tried Turnbull again.

Still not getting an answer, she made her way back down to the lobby. The young blond was still behind the desk. He looked up and smiled as he saw Sydney approach.

“Is your room satisfactory?”

“It's very nice. Can you tell me if another American has been through here in the past couple of days?”

He looked surprised. “Actually, yes. An American checked out this morning. He was interested in the ruins of Pres Herbeux.”

“Pres Herbeux? And that was just this morning?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

A grin crossed Sydney's face. It was about time something started going right on this hunt. “No, nothing's wrong. This American, was he about my age, with dark hair and a round face?”

“Yes, ma'am. And rather stocky.”

It was Morgan all right, and she was just mere hours behind him. There was a chance that she could overtake him and get to La Mort Rapide before he did.

“Thank you. The man was my friend, Morgan. Did he get a guide to Pres Herbeux? Can I get a guide as well?”

“He preferred to go alone. Jacques Rouleux drew him a map of the area. He left not more than three hours ago.”

Sydney frowned. “Jacques Rouleux?”

“He and his brothers know the ruins better than anyone else in town. He claims to have even been inside the castle.” The young man shook his head. “That is hard to believe. No one gets inside the castle.”

“How do I find Jacques Rouleux?”

“When he's not wandering the countryside, he can be found at Chez Etienne.”

Chez Etienne turned out to be the only bar in the small town. It was located just down the street from Repos Doux in a rustic building made of rough wood. The inside was the same, decorated sparsely. It was almost as if some hallucinating lumberjack had cut the furniture straight from trees with his chainsaw. At this time of day, the patrons were few and the ambiance was dark and sombre.

All looked up as she entered, except for a man at a corner table. Her eyes went to him immediately, and somehow she knew he was Jacques. He could have been any age from twenty to fifty, he had that kind of face. His body was lean, almost to the point of emaciation, and both his beard and his hair were dark and scruffy.

Sydney made her way across the room to his table, feeling the eyes of the others on her the whole way.

“Mr. Rouleux?” she asked.

He finally looked up at her, squinting in the dim light. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Sydney Fox. May I sit down?”

“What do you want, Sydney Fox?”

“I need your help.” He hadn't offered her a seat, but he hadn't refused her one either, so she pulled out a rickety wooden chair and settled into it. It made ominous noises but decided to hold her weight.

“What kind of help?”

His voice hadn't gained any warmth.

“I need a guide to Pres Herbeux.”

He frowned and took a drink of the deep amber liquid in front of him. “Lots of interest in a pile of tumbled stones.”

“Will you help me? You'll be compensated, of course.”

Jacques's eyes met hers and seemed to look right inside her. “It's not the ruins you're interested in, is it? It's the castle, and what's buried within it—like he was.”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “Not to me. I've got nothing to do, and I could always use some extra cash. When would you like to leave?”

“As soon as possible.”

Jacques smiled for the first time, but it wasn't a friendly smile. “I'll get my coat.”

As they started out, less than ten minutes from the time Sydney had entered the bar, she watched Jacques out of the corner of her eye. Her first instinct was not to trust the man, and when her gut told her something so strongly, she usually listened. There was something dodgy about him. It wasn't anything she could pin point exactly, but it put her nerves on edge. She would be glad when they parted ways at Pres Herbeux and all she had to rely on were Turnbull's notes and herself. 

They set out on foot, walking a winding path through the dense forest that nestled against Fleuve de Sange. Their path was barely an animal track, and Sydney had no idea how Jacques knew where they were going.

The guide remained mostly silent, leaving her to her own thoughts through the hours of pushing their way through grasping foliage. She should have taken this time to plan the hunt ahead and worry about the damage Morgan could do with La Mort Rapide. Instead, she found her thoughts turning to Nigel. On reflection, she felt guilty for leaving without saying good-bye, even though she had a good reason for doing so. Logically, it made sense to leave as quickly as possible in order to catch up to Morgan Lewis, but that didn't make Sydney feel any better about it. He had been so sweet, lifting her flogging spirits and giving her her next clue. She had needed to allow herself a moment of vulnerability, and she had chosen the one friend she trusted not to throw it back in her face. For that, he deserved more than a note. She owed him at least another grateful hug, and she promised herself that she would give it to him as soon as this mess with Morgan Lewis was cleared up.

Thinking of him made her smile. It had been so nice to be with him again. She wished he were on this hunt with her. It would have been comforting to have him by her side instead of the sullen, not-to-be trusted Jacques.

Her guide set a brisk pace with few breaks, but Sydney was used to physical exertion. The two of them moved quickly through the forest, and it was only a matter of a few hours before trees gave way to lumpy and overgrown land. It was clear that no one had lived there for awhile, but it was also clear that the environment had been tamed at one time. Grass grew, long and scraggly, up to Sydney's knees, and it was only interrupted by the rocky stretch of mud bordering the river the town was named for. The water ran cool and clear, giving no indication as to why it was named The River of Blood. Sydney wondered if it had anything to do with Le Sorcier.

“How far to the ruins?” she asked eventually.

He stopped and regarded her, his dark eyes unreadable. “We should reach them by nightfall. It will be best if we rest there and you go on to the castle in daylight. The castle has protections that can be very dangerous.”

Sydney nodded solemnly, not telling him that she had a document that could be used as a map to get through to the hidden chamber within.

“Just getting into the castle is hard work. I'm the only one I know of who has done it.” His gaze turned shrewd. “Your friend seemed to think this wouldn't be a problem.”

She just shrugged. “Either I'll get in or I won't. You could always...”

“Pres Herbeux is as far as I go,” he cut her off sharply.

“Then, I'll manage.”

The sky hadn't yet begun to darken when he stopped and pointed. Sydney shaded her eyes to see tumbled stones and hunched earth. No structure stood, but it was obvious that there had been several at one time. There was even a faint track, just a difference in the way the overgrown weeds grew, that must have once been a road. 

“Pres Herbeux?” she asked.

“Pres Herbeux.”

Not long after the appearance of the ruins, Sydney began to notice something gray on the horizon. As they moved closer, it began to grow until she recognized the castle that had once ruled over the tiny village. The two of them made their way carefully towards it on the uneven ground.

They reached the village just as twilight started to fall. On the walk, Sydney had decided that she didn't want to wait until morning to go to the castle. Morgan Lewis had a good lead on her, and if she stopped to sleep, that lead would widen. He might even have the amulet before she woke. That was unacceptable. A better plan would be to wait until her guide was asleep, then give him the slip.

With that thought firmly in mind, Sydney moved past Rouleux to enter the ruins.

Her only warning was the sound of him shifting positions. Sydney turned quickly and saw a knife plunging towards her. With no time to be shocked, she acted on instinct, bringing up her arm to block his wrist with hers. The impact as their bones met jarred painfully, but Sydney shoved the pain to the back of her mind.

Rouleux slashed at her again and, this time, she gracefully dodged out of reach.

“What are you doing?” she asked, dropping her satchel.

The guide finally genuinely smiled. “Isn't it obvious?”

“Lewis paid you, didn't he?” Sydney asked, avoiding another swipe. “He paid you to make sure I'd never reach the castle.”

The man pulled back and regarded her, his body tensed for movement. He was obviously thinking out his next attack. “Yes, he paid me well...but I might have done it for free.”

“Why now? Why not kill me earlier? Why bring me to Pres Herbeux?”

“Several reasons. Chief among them is that only a handful of people know how to find this place. Your body may never be found.” He shrugged. “If it is, they'll probably blame it on Lewis.”

He lunged again, but Sydney had been expecting it. Instead of blocking or dodging the blow, she grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. The knife missed her body by less than an inch, but her fist didn't miss Rouleaux's face. It connected with a satisfying crunch. She followed it up with a firm knee into his stomach, which doubled him over.

Sydney let go of his arm and cracked her elbow against the back of his head. He tumbled to the ground, still clutching his knife.

Surprisingly agile, he sprang up again almost immediately. She lashed out and kicked the knife from his hand. It landed ten feet away with a heavy thunk. She followed up this kick with another, this time aiming at his face. Rouleaux moved quickly, and the blow just glanced off the side of his head. He reached for her, so Sydney threw a simple right hook, putting all of her weight behind it. He stopped, stunned, so she added a left. Then, she twirled. This time, the round house connected as it was supposed to. Rouleux flew backwards and lay still.

Sydney knelt and saw that he was still breathing. Then, she got up and headed towards the castle. It seemed she wouldn't have to wait for Rouleux to go to sleep after all.

Using Turnbull's notes, Sydney didn't head directly for the castle. She knew that any possible or visible entrances at the structure were heavily trapped and almost impossible to use. The main entrance was actually a ways from the castle, in a bunch of piled rocks. Sydney found these easily enough, despite the fact that it had grown dark and she had to use her flashlight.

When she reached the stones, she leaned against them and dug in her satchel for her phone. Quickly, she dialed Turnbull's number and waited for an answer. As it had at her hotel, the phone just kept ringing until she gave up and snapped it closed. Where was Turnbull? She thought he'd be waiting impatiently, hungry for news.

With a shrug, Sydney dropped the phone back into her bag. It would have been nice to have Turnbull's advice, but she didn't really need it. 

She turned and studied the stones, flicking her flashlight along them, looking for the trigger. It was well hidden and just a small, jutting piece of rock, but she found it quickly. Her long fingers ran over the smooth and weather worn surface before giving it a firm push. The whole structure in front of her gave a deep groan. Then, with a scraping noise that set Sydney's teeth on edge, it began to shift. In seconds, an opening was revealed where before there had been only blank stone.

Peering inside, Sydney saw damp stairs made of the same stone. The darkness was so deep, it seemed to absorb the beam from her flashlight. A strange feeling prickled along her backbone, and she shivered. Part of her did not want to find out where those stairs led. 

Shrugging this feeling off, she began the climb down. She was only on the second stair when the rock behind her shuddered and the opening screeched shut behind her. She paused for a moment, thinking of the heavy walls surrounding her, before reaching out her foot for the third step.

Sydney had to walk carefully because puddles of water made the stairs slick. Faintly, she could hear a steady drip. She did not touch the sides to help her balance unless she absolutely had to. She wasn't trusting ancient notes translated by someone else to tell her everything. Experience had taught her that, in both relic hunting and in life, traps were everywhere.

The flight was shorter than she expected, about twenty steps. At the bottom, she found a narrow corridor. The floor was made of hard packed dirt. On the walls, there were brackets for torches, but they were empty.

Sydney followed the corridor slowly, noting that hundreds of years worth of cobwebs had been broken and were hanging down limply, as if in dejection. Their tendrils tickled her face and clung to her clothing. The dust in front of her feet was carelessly disturbed, and it was obvious that Lewis had arrived before her and that he was confident she wouldn't be following.

She smiled grimly at her rival's cockiness. It would be his downfall.

Sydney began to move more quietly, alert for any sound that could be made by Lewis. Even so, she heard nothing and saw no sight of him. She wondered how far behind him she was.

The corridor seemed to go on forever. It was silent and still. In fact, it seemed to muffle both sound and light, though Sydney knew that was probably just fanciful imaginings. There was something about it that made her uneasy.

This was unusual, but the whole hunt had been like this—unsettling. Maybe it was because of Carmen's broken body. Maybe it was because she had felt so lost standing on Nigel's doorstep in the rain, not knowing what to do next. Whatever it was, she didn't feel like herself.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sydney came to a large wooden door. It was slightly ajar, only half blocking the passageway. Her sense of unease grew as she approached the opening and peered into the blackness beyond.

Cautiously, she touched the door. She was about to open it a bit more so she could slip by when something caught her eye. The door had a sharp metal clasp, and something had been impaled upon it. She reached out and gently took the object in her fingers. It was a square of cloth, rough and ragged. The green plaid pattern was faded and dirt smudged. She recognized the material. If she hadn't been sure the person she followed was Morgan Lewis, this would have confirmed it for her.

Tucking the scrap in her pocket with one hand, she opened the door wider with the other. She carefully avoided both the protruding metal and the cold wetness of the door frame.

That's when it hit her.

Sydney felt as if she were running into a physical wall as her senses were overwhelmed by the stench of death and decay. She would not have been surprised if her flashlight's beam discovered piles of rotting corpses or discarded, ruined fruit. Immediately, her left arm came up to shield her face, and her eyes filled with tears.

Fearing what she'd find, Sydney ran her flashlight around the small room she found herself in. It was completely empty. In disbelief, she searched every nook and cranny, discovering only a rusted metal doorway, partially ajar as the wooden door had been, and some more rough hewn stone stairs.

She wiped her eyes and wondered if she should investigate where the door went or make her way up the stairs. The clues in her hand said to make her way upward, ever upward, until she found the library—which she hoped was still recognizable after all of these centuries.

Even so, she let curiosity lead her to the metal bars. On the other side, she discovered a hallway filled with cells. The hallway was so narrow that someone could stand in the middle and touch the cells on either side. In the nearest cell, a wretched skeleton hung from iron chains, its one remaining foot dangling off of the floor. At the end of the hallway was another barred door, similar to the one Sydney was looking through. She had a feeling it led to another row of cells.

She turned her back on this depressing view and went up the stairs. The higher she got, the fainter the stench of death and decay became. Grateful for that at least, she had shaken off some of her unease by the time she reached the next level. 

The room at the top of the stairs was large and empty. There were four doors leading from the room and another flight of stairs. Without hesitation, Sydney began to climb these as well.

She climbed for a long time until she came to a stark and chilled hallway. Once rugs might have softened and warmed the harsh floor, but now it lay as bare and cold as Fabrice DeViega's heart. Windows were spaced at even intervals along one wall, paneless gaps that let in the darkness of the night beyond.

With so many windows, the hallway should have been clear of the cloying odor that plagued the lower levels. Instead, the air was close and smothering, and the smell was as strong as it had been in the dungeon. Even having smelled it before, Sydney's stomach rolled. A feeling of wrongness surrounded her, and she wondered what kind of magic user Le Sorcier really was.

She followed the hallway, her footfalls sounding unusually loud in the silence. As she passed the first window, she was almost afraid to turn her head. An irrational thought lurked in the back of her mind, telling her that if she looked, all she would see was an empty void of sucking darkness. Knowing this was silly, she forced herself to look out the window. Nonetheless, relief flooded her as she saw a simple, overcast night and the faint outline of trees below.

Doorways started at the same point as the windows, running parallel like ancient pairs of dancers. Most of the doors were somewhat intact, though some gaped malevolently. Curiously, she shone her light into one of those, only to find it empty.

She had passed several doors when her ears picked up the faint sound of someone mounting the stairs. She paused, wondering if somehow Lewis had gotten behind her. She didn't see how, unless he had been sidetracked by one of the branching hallways.

Puzzled, Sydney moved across the hallway to the nearest doorway. This one still had a sturdy wooden door, though it hung crookedly on one hinge. Slightly open, there was enough space for a slim body to slip through.

She did so, pressing to the cool stone of the wall inside, unmindful of the centuries' worth of grime she could feel against the bare flesh of her arms. 

None of the faint moonlight reached this far, and Sydney had turned out her light before entering. She waited silently in a blackness so thick it was almost tangible. 

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and started down the hallway. They were even and sure.

As they came closer, Sydney was surprised when she didn't see the faint beam of a flashlight as it showed the owner of the footsteps his way. She frowned and waited, her body tense and ready to spring. She was so still that she barely breathed. Then, she thought of her crossbow.

Slowly, Sydney eased it out of its sheath. She winced at the sound it made, easily audible in the complete silence, when she opened and then cocked it. The footsteps did not falter, and she wondered if it was because the person following her hadn't heard or because he knew she was there.

She held the crossbow loosely in her right hand. The other held her flashlight. Her thumb found the square button on the top, and it hovered there expectantly, waiting for just one push to shed light on the situation.

The footsteps reached her doorway and continued by.

Sure she was going to find either Morgan Lewis or Jacques Rouleaux, Sydney slid through the door's thin crack into the hallway. Both her crossbow and flashlight were ready for action. She pushed the button on the latter with her thumb.

Her mouth dropped open as she took in the empty hallway in front of her. Puzzled, she turned and studied the rest of the corridor behind. There was nothing. Even the sound of footsteps had stopped. All was silence.

She studied the hallway once more, sweeping her light along it. There was no way someone could have gotten to the nearest door before she turned on her light.

Warily, Sydney uncocked her crossbow and folded it to fit into its holster. Deliberately turning her back on the hallway, she pointed the beam of her flashlight into her hiding place. She was close enough to the library's location that it was possible she had found it. 

She was tense as she re-entered, half expecting someone to attack her while her back was turned. Everything remained silent and still.

The room had once been some sort of study or sitting room, but Sydney was pretty sure it wasn't the library. An ancient desk sat lopsidedly against the far wall. Age had weathered and pitted it, but it was still recognizable. Ancient and tattered cloth hung from the wall in strips, all that was left of the tapestries decorating the room. A big stone fireplace was waiting to dispel the chill, and there was even something that might have once been a chair. Interesting but not what she was looking for.

She was going to turn and leave when something caught her eye. It glinted as her light passed by. Frowning, Sydney gave in to curiosity and moved forward.

A faint click was her only warning, and she jumped back just in time. Something flew through the space she had just been standing to embed itself, quivering, in the far wall.

She studied it and discovered it was a crossbow bolt as thick as her wrist. The crossbow that fired it must have been at least four times the size of hers, but she saw no sign of it. The wall the bolt had come from was smooth stone.

She approached it cautiously, aware that where there was one trap, there could be a dozen. The wall remained smooth—or as smooth as rough cut blocks that had been neglected for centuries could be.

It would have made more sense to continue looking for the library, but her gut told her there was something she needed to do first. Where that bolt had come from was important.

She reached out to touch the wall, body tight and ready to spring away at the slightest scent of a trap. Her fingers expected to feel stone, but instead only felt a slight tingle. Sydney's eyes opened wide as her fingers touched the stone and then went beyond, disappearing into the wall with only slight resistance and strange sensation. 

She pulled her hand back, startled, before biting her lip and trying again. This time, she let her arm slip in to the elbow. It was almost like putting your hand through jello—well if the jello were vibrating.

Once more, Sydney removed her arm, wondering if she should see if her whole body could go through the wall. She did not want to get stuck half way through if the wall hardened or find herself in a place where it was impossible to breathe.

In the end, it was her gut feeling that decided her. Slowly, she slid one arm into the wall, up to about her elbow. Then, she tried the other. When nothing happened, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes before moving her whole body into the wall. The resistance got slightly stronger, but she was still able to push herself forward.

Suddenly, the resistance stopped, and Sydney almost stumbled. Her eyes flew open, and she allowed herself to breathe when her light showed she was in another small room. The air was free of the cloying scent of death that permeated the rest of the castle. After taking one small breath, Sydney gratefully took another. 

The tiny room contained only two uncomfortable looking wooden chairs and a large crossbow that was now empty and benign. Sydney studied it without touching it, though her fingers itched to do so. Her eyes told her that it was no longer dangerous, but the rest of her wasn't so sure. 

She moved further into the room, wanting to inspect the strange designs on the chairs. As she stepped forward, a slight shifting of the rock beneath her foot made her curse. She had been so intent on danger from the walls that she hadn't been paying attention to her feet.

Senses completely alert, Sydney held her breath to see what form the trap would take. Movement from the corner of her eye had her dropping and rolling before her mind could even comprehend that she had seen it.

Her drop was just in time. A blade on a pendulum swept across the room, slicing air where her body had just been. It passed three times before being sucked back into the wall with an audible squeal.

Sydney lay on the floor, forcing her breath to become even. She hated blade traps. Really hated them—more than spikes, more than arrows.

When she was absolutely sure the blade wasn't coming back, she got to her feet. She avoided the trigger for the trap and went to the chairs. They were simple and unadorned for the most part, but the arms and part of their backs were carved with symbols.

Sydney bent closer to study them. There were some that she didn't recognize, but the skulls stood out as clear as day. She also saw bats and dragons.

The chairs were not facing each other but the wall, and Sydney wondered why. Almost without her conscious thought, her fingers reached out and traced one of the symbols. Realizing what she had done, she snatched her hand away, alert for the springing of another trap.

She froze as the wall in front of her began to change. Much like the one behind her, it wasn't what it seemed. It began to shimmer and gave off its own faint light.

“What the...?” Sydney whispered as shapes began to appear in the soft glow.

At first, they were unrecognizable, just wisps of soft color that twirled in and around one another. Then, the images grew clearer, and her hand went to the back of the chair for support. 

She saw Nigel.

His face came into focus, so sharp that he could have been looking into her eyes. He smiled sweetly, then was quickly taken over as the whole wall suddenly seemed to be dripping with blood. It ran down in crimson rivulets, tracing ancient seams in the cold stone.

It too faded away, revealing the form of a torn and fly covered Carmen Facey. What was left of her face stared lifelessly into the night sky.

Sydney swallowed and her hand gripped the chair it rested on so tightly that the symbols bit into her flesh.

Once more, Nigel appeared. She was relieved to see him alive and whole, still smiling. Then, he reached out to someone, and Sydney felt a sudden jolt as she saw herself appear. She was also smiling as she moved into Nigel's arms, and the two of them began to dance. 

Their dancing figures swirled and faded to show Sydney alone. She was walking down one of the castles many hallways, but this one was a bit different. The stones beneath her feet were slightly colored, showing faded blues and reds and greens. The Sydney in the picture stopped suddenly and turned just as a spout of fire erupted in front of her. She then began to carefully step on only blue colored stones.

The real Sydney took a step back, releasing the chair. As she did, the wall went black. What she had seen so shocked her that she almost forgot about the blade's trigger. She stopped just in time.

Angrily, she shook off all feelings of shock. She had been relic hunting a long time, and she had seen many strange and supernatural things. She wasn't going to let some medieval moving picture intimidate her. A scowl came to her face, and she turned away from the wall and its visions. She had a library and a murderous bastard to find.

Moving to the hidden doorway, Sydney had a moment of worry. What if it only worked one way? What if she were trapped?

She held her breath as she reached forward and let it out in a sigh of relief as her questing fingers slowly moved into the wall. The rest of her quickly followed, aware that she had squandered a half an hour on her little side trip. Morgan Lewis could have found La Mort Rapide while she was watching mystical movies.

She hurried through the outer room without even a sideways glance and slipped past the crooked doorway into the hall. From there, she started checking every doorway, looking for the library.

As soon as Sydney saw the door, she knew it was the right one. Unlike the rest of the castle, it looked new. The wood was as bright as if it had just been hung, and the iron that lashed it together was shiny.

She opened the door, noting how easily and noiselessly this was accomplished, to find herself in a room untouched by time.

It was huge, so huge that Sydney's footsteps echoed in the deathly silent and chill air. No dust drifted up from her feet. Le Sorcier could have just left the room.

There were shelves and pigeon holes lining the walls. Where there were no shelves, there were bright tapestries, woven with amazingly lifelike dragons and scenes of hunting and death. Like the last room, this one had a desk, though this desk looked as shiny and new as the door. It was dark wood, and the clawed feet and part of the sides were carved with the same symbols as the chairs in the hidden scrying room. Ink, quills, and a piece of parchment sat on top, waiting for someone to come and fulfill their purpose.

Behind the desk was a huge painting. It was of a man with hard, dark eyes and a hint of a smile on his face. It wasn't a nice smile. He was dressed in black robes, and around his neck hung a simple amulet adorned with a madly grinning skull.

La Mort Rapide.

Sydney approached the desk. Behind it there was a stone she had to step on to open the secret passage leading to the hiding place of La Mort Rapide. 

The cruel eyes of Le Sorcier followed her in disapproval. She ignored them and crouched to study the floor. The symbol was small and worn but still easily visible if one knew what to look for. She traced it with a finger before leaning forward to press her weight down on the stone.

Sydney gasped when the cold rock under her hands suddenly disappeared. She pitched forward and released an undignified cry as she tumbled, face first, into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Nigel brushed off his clothes as he got up off of the floor. That had been...unexpected. He peered up, eyeing the shadowy slide that had brought him from the library. It looked innocent enough now, but falling down it had almost scared a year's life out of him.

The room he found himself in was dark and windowless. It was also empty, as most of the rooms in the castle were. There were four hallways branching from it, and to Nigel it seemed as if his body were the completion of an “x”.

He regarded the tunnels for a moment, knowing that along at least three of them there were probably traps waiting to be sprung. In fact the room he stood in could also be trapped. This realization brought a frown to his face, and he slung his pack to the floor. It was time to consult Turnbull's notes once more.

Thinking of Turnbull made Nigel wince. That was the first time, even with all of the adventures he'd been on with Sydney, he had ever seen so much blood. But it hadn't been the last. Nigel's wince turned into a shudder.

He let himself remember how still the night had been as he and his guide, Pierre, approached the ruins of Pres Herbeux. Pierre had warned that sometimes dangerous animals prowled the ruins after dark. In the end, it wasn't an animal they found.

“Sydney. You've got to find Sydney,” Nigel mumbled, trying to push the memory away.

It was tenacious, however, and the scene forced itself into Nigel's mind. Pierre's cry when they found his brother, cut open and mutilated. The horror and Nigel's sudden understanding of what Carmen Facey's death must have looked like. The blood and the almost overwhelming urge to retch. The fear as Nigel abruptly realized that whoever killed Carmen and Turnbull was not in front of Sydney but behind her. Stalking. And the only one who could save her was Nigel himself.

Nigel had spent the time since then praying that he was not too late. His worry grew step by step. He cursed his slowness and the fact that he hadn't woken when she left that morning. If she died, it was as good as his fault.

The thought made his hand shake, and it was harder to read Turnbull's notes. He squinted at the handwriting, trying to figure out the right direction.

After a few minutes, he decided that he needed to take the passage to his right. Having made the decision, he rolled up the papers and shoved them back into his pack.

Despite the fact that he was about ninety per cent sure of his decision, Nigel was still hesitant as he approached the tunnel. The castle around him was eerie—the whole atmosphere reminded him of a horror movie. For one, it just felt wrong. It was as if a blanket of dread surrounded the place, and it seemed to intensify the further he went. And there was the smell. To him, it smelled like corruption. There was no other way he could describe it. It made the bile rise in his throat and the back of his nose tingle.

As he started down the corridor, it seemed to whisper to him with a subtle voice, almost like a snake's scales against stone. Nigel shivered and clutched his bag tighter but still resolutely moved on. He was used to fear. Fear was an old, comfortable friend he'd become well acquainted with on his adventures with Sydney. It had no power over him, especially here, with his best friend's life at stake. 

He hadn't traveled very far when broken cobwebs and a clear footprint made by Sydney's own boot showed him he had chosen the right tunnel. He let a sigh escape, and his grip on his pack loosened slightly. To make the footprint, Sydney had to still be alive.

The knowledge made him hurry once more. His torch bobbed, creating strange shadows along the gray walls. 

There were three more branchings. Each time, Nigel took the left fork. As he took the last one, he stopped and stared. The whole hallway, along both sides, was lined with alcoves. Each alcove contained a skeleton. Some of them had shattered with time, but some were remarkably intact. Widely grinning skulls leered at him from these. Nigel had never liked skeletons, though they didn't bother him as much as they once did. Even so, eyeless sockets seemed to watch him as he boldly stepped among the aged bones.

His footfalls echoed loudly with each step, and the whispers were louder. Now they hovered just outside of hearing, as if the long dead souls of those trapped here were talking to one another. It made Nigel's skin crawl.

Frowning, he pushed away the unpleasant images the hallway conjured in his imagination. He forced himself to point his torch straight ahead and refused to look to either side. The whispers he thought he heard were probably rats or old stones settling.

In his mind, he saw Sydney walking down this same corridor, her back straight, and no hint of fear on her features. She would have been striding confidently, a fierce excitement in her dark eyes.

The thought turned his frown to a smile. He couldn't believe it had been two years since he had seen her that way. The image was as sharp and clear as if he had gone on her last hunt. With the smile, the corridor seemed less oppressive, and it was easier for him to ignore the skeletons.

The hallway ended abruptly, as Nigel knew it was supposed to. The dead end was made of the same blocks as the rest of the corridor. It even had its own skeletons. They stood facing Nigel. Unlike the others, they had nasty weapons whose curved blades looked new.

Nigel studied the skeletons and their blades for a moment. He wondered at their purpose. Were they there to guard against people who came to liberate La Mort Rapide? Or were they there for something more sinister and supernatural? After all, they were the only skeletons bearing weapons. Was their job to prevent the others from escaping? 

Nigel shook his head at these useless speculations and looked for the trigger he knew to be on the wall. Seeing nothing, he put his fingers to it, gently running them along the cracks and seems.

There was an almost imperceptible click, and Nigel felt all the color drain from his face as he quickly jumped back. He moved just in time as both skeletons turned and their blades sliced through where he had been standing. Metal clanged as the curved weapons hit the wall. Chips of stone flew at Nigel, and he threw up his left arm to protect his face and eyes.

He didn't see them, but he could hear a rusty creaking as the skeletons righted themselves and assumed their former pose. Nigel swallowed hard and peeked over the top of his arm. All was as it had been except for the chunks that had been broken from the wall by the force of the assault.

More careful this time, Nigel explored the wall with his eyes instead of his hands. Every few seconds, he stopped to glance at one or the other of the skeletons, not sure what would set them off.

He found what he was looking for on the side of a block near the floor. Almost timidly, he reached out and pushed the tiny trigger. 

There was a groan and once more Nigel had to move quickly. The whole section of wall began to swing outward. It opened wide enough for two people to slip through side by side and stopped. He continued to eye the skeletons warily as he slipped through the crack.

Nigel was puzzled to find himself in what appeared to be an empty closet. He shone his torch around it, trying to discover what came next. The wall closed behind him, and Nigel had a moment of claustrophobic panic before he realized that he was gently rising. Whether through magic or through weights, Le Sorcier had managed to invent a primitive elevator. With a sigh of relief, Nigel relaxed and prepared to meet the castle's next challenge.


	6. Chapter 6

She was lost.

Sydney hated to admit it to herself, but she was almost positive she had taken a wrong turn at the last fork. For one thing, her notes and her passage no longer matched; for another, the cobwebs were less ragged and looked as if they hadn't been disturbed for a long time.

She bit her lip and shone her light around, studying the passageway she found herself in. It looked the same as every other one she'd come through—bare, with nothing but stone and cobwebs to break the monotony. She wondered why Le Sorcier had made a maze of secret passageways inside his castle. She also wondered how many relics lay hidden in its puzzling twists and turns. If she kept going, would she find something just as awesome and horrifying as La Mort Rapide was supposed to be? 

The temptation to find the answer was strong, and only the knowledge that Morgan Lewis was ahead of her stopped her from finding out.

Sydney turned to retrace her steps, feeling the corners of her mouth turn down in a scowl. She wondered how far she would have to backtrack. With the luck she'd been having on this hunt, it would probably cost her just enough time for Lewis to find La Mort Rapide and give his new toy a try.

As she followed the corridor, she wondered if Alec Ryan could have known what he would unleash when he left his papers to Carmen's John. Sydney couldn't help but believe it might have been better if Ryan's research had disappeared on his death. Some relics, as she had once told Nigel, should never be found.

She was broken from these morbid thoughts by her light shining on something ahead.

“Dammit,” she mumbled.

The way forward was blocked by a wall made of iron bars, much like the doors in the dungeon. They were black and shiny. None of the grime of the corridor or the effects of time seemed to have touched them. She had no idea where they came from—she had heard and seen nothing.

She moved closer, hoping the bars might be wide enough for her to slip through. That hope was dashed when she got close enough to see that even Claudia would have trouble getting through. The closer she got, the sturdier the bars looked. Sydney was sure there was no way she'd be able to break them either. 

She stopped and studied them for a moment before going forward to touch them. They were cold and smooth against her palms. She ran her hands along them, feeling for weaknesses where her eyes had seen none. It was soon all too clear that her eyes had been right. 

Sydney let an undignified growl escape, though she wasn't really surprised. She then turned her light to the hard floor. The bottom of the bars rested gently against the dusty and chipped stone. She wondered if it would be possible to push the barrier back into the ceiling. She doubted it but shone her light up there anyway. There was a slit where the bars had come down, its edges as sharp as the day they had been made.

After putting her flashlight down, Sydney wrapped her fingers around the bars and gave a heave. They didn't even give enough to wiggle. She tried again, a little harder, and got the same result. In disgust, she gave one of the bars a kick—not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to feel through the thick toe of her boot.

When she picked up her flashlight, something on the other side of the bars caught Sydney's attention. Shining her light on it, she discovered a small lever that she hadn't noticed before. It was a small piece of wood about a foot long that stuck out through the stones of the wall. She wondered if she could reach it. It was closer than she would have expected. She put her left arm through the bars and pressed against them, reaching for the lever. The cold metal burned against the flesh of her cheek, sending a chill through her, and she pushed hard enough that it hurt. Even so, the lever was still tantalizingly out of reach. Grunting, she tried to angle her body even further through the bars. She even sucked in her breath to help.

As she strained, a thought struck her, and she slacked off to move her flashlight from her right hand to her left. Once more reaching through the bars, stretching as much as possible without splitting herself in two, she could just brush the side of the lever with the tip of her flashlight. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get the connection to be any firmer than that. 

Untangling from the bars, Sydney wondered how she could make her flashlight about five inches longer. She had her crossbow, but it wouldn't help her in this instance. She didn't think she had anything that would. She was about to open her satchel and have a look, when she had a strange idea. It was so strange that she was pretty sure it wouldn't work, but she decided to try it anyway. 

Feeling silly, she undid her pants and pushed them over her hips. They were wet and stiff with dirt and felt more like plastic than fabric. It was slow going, but she managed to beat the grime enough to roll them down past her thighs. From there, it got slightly easier, and she was able to step out of them without much problem. 

The air was cool on her bare legs, and she felt them bloom with goosebumps. She ignored this as she tied the flashlight securely to the end of one of her pant legs. She tested the knots three times to make sure they wouldn't let go.

“Just call me Mrs. McGyver,” she mumbled, remembering a show that had fascinated her in her teens.

Once she was sure her flashlight wouldn't fly loose and leave her in the dark, Sydney started spinning her pants. She had a few false starts as the light kept wanting to hit the floor or the bars. Eventually, she got enough momentum and moved her arm quickly forward to propel it towards the lever. 

The fabric hit the top of the lever, while the flashlight kept going until the pants stopped it short. Its momentum made it loop around the lever, winding Sydney's pants securely as it went. A huge grin spread over her face as she watched this small miracle.

When the flashlight stopped whirling and sending crazy flashes of light around the corridor, Sydney knelt and gave a firm tug downward. She felt the lever give a little, but it didn't move. She tried again, gently so the pants wouldn't slip free, but still firmly. The lever gave a little more. She kept up a steady pressure and was rewarded when the lever slowly started to move downward.

“Come on, baby. Come on.”

There was a sudden screech as the lever fell the rest of the way and the bars began to rise. Sydney was taken by surprise and fell backwards, landing unceremoniously on her rear end, and making her skin and underwear as dirty as her pants. She recovered and quickly rolled under the bars, afraid that they would slam back down again. 

Once on the other side, she got up, trying in vain to wipe off some of the filth. Her pants were still firmly wrapped around the lever, so she untangled them and untied the flashlight. It was no worse for wear and still shone brightly as she took it back into her hand. 

Her pants went back on with even more difficulty than they'd come off. They were so stiff that there was almost no give to them at all. Still, she struggled and finally got them over her hips. She wiggled bit to make them fit comfortably before doing them up.

That done, she wondered how far it was to the right corridor. Hopefully, it wouldn't take too long to get there. If she were lucky, her unfortunate detour hadn't cost her too much precious time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some blood and violence.

It hadn't taken Sydney as long as she feared it would to return to the main passage. This time, she was careful to study her environs thoroughly, noting the footprints and broken cobwebs.

By that time, weariness had settled on her heavily. Her watch said it was just passed midnight, but it felt so much later. She had been wandering in the castle for hours, and the grime was so thick on her skin that it seemed like a permanent part of her. Her last shower was just a dim memory. Had it only been that morning? Only the knowledge that she was getting very close to La Mort Rapide kept her steps from faltering. 

She supposed later that it was the weariness of her trip through the castle and the days of failure and and sleeplessness before it that made her completely miss the trigger for the next trap. Whatever it was, Sydney gave a squeak of surprise as the floor beneath her began to move. Then, suddenly, it dropped away, and she found herself falling.

The fall was mercifully short, but ended with her landing on something hard that crunched under her body's weight. Her flashlight had flown from her hand when the trap opened, and it hit less than a second later, its faithful light finally going out. She hoped it wasn't broken. 

Knowing the direction it had fallen, she started to feel her way towards it. Whatever she had fallen on started to shift with her movement, and her fingers felt something smooth but splintered. Her questing hands also encountered something round. She ran her fingers down it and they plunged into a hole. She drew in a sharp breath of disgust and snatched her hands away as she suddenly realized that she had fallen on some poor bugger's remains. The snapping as she landed had been his bones breaking.

“This hunt keeps getting better and better,” she grumbled.

It was a good thing Nigel wasn't there, she thought. Skeletons always made him squeamish. She grit her teeth, denying that she could be bothered with such concerns, and forced herself to reach forward once more.

It wasn't long before she found her flashlight and jiggled the button. To her relief, it came on immediately, as strong and as dependable as before.

This was when she got her first look at her cell mate. Rather worse for wear since she had fallen on him, he looked as malevolent as the skeletons she had passed earlier that night. His sightless eyes seemed to stare at her with a burning hunger, and his teeth seemed to grin at her with evil intent.

Sydney blinked hard and pushed those thoughts away. She told herself that he was just someone who had died long ago—some poor sap who had fallen in the trap and couldn't get out. Any harm he could have done was far in the past. 

Even so, she couldn't take her eyes off the remains as she dug in her satchel for her crossbow. She noted that the skull lay at the feet of the skeleton, as if his head had been chopped or ripped off. There might be a blade trap in the pit; she kept her senses alert for it.

Sydney hooked the crossbow's rope to one of its arrows. Though thin, she knew the rope could hold her—it had on several occasions. Above her, the ceiling was made in blocks, just as the walls were. Between the stones were small gaps, just wide enough for an arrow to bury itself. 

Aiming for a place close to the edge of the pit, she pulled the trigger. A bolt shot out, embedding itself in the ceiling. Sydney tugged on the rope until she was satisfied the rope would hold. The pit was only eight feet deep, and the rough edges would let her feet help her hands lever her out of the hole.

“I can't say I'm sorry to say good-bye,” she told the skeleton cheerily, her voice echoing loudly in the small space.

Then, she began her climb. The wall tore at her knees, and the rope burned her hands, but she ignored it. That kind of pain was as familiar to her as breathing.

As quickly as she could, Sydney scrambled up the side of the pit. She held her flashlight in her mouth because both of her hands gripped the rope tightly.

Clearing the top, she gratefully crawled the rest of the way out before unhooking her arrow from the ceiling.

While she was putting the crossbow back in her satchel, she took out Turnbull's notes for one last perusal. As far as she could tell, she would soon be entering the final corridor. Only one sentence remained in the notes: Water brings you through the fire, but it's blood that makes a heart beat.

Looking ahead, she could see the last fork. It was so close that a few steps would take her to it. She knew that she could face Lewis at any moment. The man could be lurking in the next corridor, waiting for her, with La Mort Rapide clutched in his hands.

It was with great caution that she entered that corridor. Her body was tensed and ready to fight.

The hallway felt empty; none of her senses picked up any signs of life. Even so, Sydney kept alert as she flashed her light along the walls, ceiling, and floor. Lewis might not be waiting there, but traps could come from any direction.

The floor beneath her feet was tiled in different colored stones. Though they were faded, Sydney made out blues and reds and greens. Something about their placement niggled in the back of her mind. Everything about the corridor was eerily familiar. She reached for the memory.

It suddenly hit her with the power of a closed fist as her foot moved forward to land on a green tile. Immediately, Sydney turned away. There was a roar behind her and heat blasted her back as fire shot from the floor. The scent of smoke, burnt flesh, and open graves filled the corridor, overwhelming and replacing the stench of moldy death Sydney had been living with for hours.

The sound and heat disappeared as quickly as it came, though the smell lingered. Sydney knew her face was pale, and she could feel her hands shaking as she started forward, carefully stepping on only blue stones. That had been closer than even she could be comfortable with.

She followed the blue stones until the corridor ended abruptly in a solid wall. Like the floor, it was made of big blocks of colored stone. The difference was that these colors were bright, almost as if they were still wet. The stone in the middle of the wall was red. It was ringed outward by alternating squares comprised of green and blue blocks. Sydney settled both of her feet on one of the floor's blue stones and studied the wall.

It only took her seconds to decide that the answer lie in the red stone. The last line of Turnbull's notes pointed to it. If water meant the blue stones on the floor, then the blood had to be the single red stone. Having made up her mind, she reached over and firmly pushed it.

At her touch, the wall slowly swung inward, and Sydney found herself in a large chamber. She shone her light around, wrinkling her nose at a familiar and unpleasant smell. Where the rest of the castle had smelled of mold and rot, this room had the strong tangy scent of fresh blood. 

As Sydney entered, the way behind her closed, cutting off escape. Her hand tightened on her flashlight as she continued to study the room. It was mostly empty, but there were tapestries and unlit torches on the walls. The former, like those in the library, looked new. Their colors were still sharp and vibrant, and their scenes were clear and disturbing. How did cloth last that long without crumbling to dust in a place like this? 

Nearby was a small, raised platform, about the size of a podium. It might have once contained La Mort Rapide, but now it was empty.

The only other piece of furniture, if it could be called that, was in the centre of the room. It was about waist high and made of dusky granite. It was also a mess.

She let out an involuntary cry, rushing forward to see what her eyes were telling her but her brain refused to believe. The piece of granite had obviously been used for sacrifices. Heavy leather straps for arms and legs had been firmly attached to it, and a groove in the stone was obviously a channel for blood.

This wasn't what had wrenched the cry from Sydney. It was the fact that there was someone held prostrate by the nasty looking straps, and it was obvious that this was where the scent of fresh blood originated.

She wouldn't have recognized Morgan Lewis if not for the familiar eyes staring sightlessly from the mangled and flayed face. What was left of his mutilated body was covered with blood, as was the rock beneath it. The body had been sliced open and its limbs had been removed enough to leave a five inch wide gap between them and the torso. Organs were strewn around haphazardly, and she had a feeling at least some of them had been removed before Lewis's death. Just like Carmen.

Sydney locked her teeth and swallowed, willing herself not to retch. The stench and sight of Lewis was overpowering. She took a step back and swallowed again, forcing down bile. Closing her eyes to block out everything so she could think, something occurred to her, making her eyes fly open again. If Morgan Lewis was lying here in his own blood, ripped to shreds, who or what had killed him?

That was her last thought before sudden, searing agony plunged her into darkness.

XXX

Sydney awakened with a pounding pain in her skull. As she reached for consciousness, her stomach rolled. She clamped her teeth shut and blinked open gummy eyes. Her first instinct was to ask Nigel what had happened.

As awareness returned, she remembered that Nigel hadn't been with her. She had been alone—alone in the dark with Morgan Lewis's body. It wasn't dark any longer. Someone had lit the torches.

She was lying on something hard and cold. It chilled the flesh of her bare arms and seeped through her vest and pants into her back and butt. Something sticky had covered and was drying on her, and she could feel it pull at her skin. She tried to move her arms to become more comfortable, but she couldn't. Both her wrists and ankles were tightly trapped.

Sydney moved her head, ignoring the pounding, to see that she was shackled to the piece of granite. Her arms were darkly stained with blood, and the leather restraints bit into her wrists.

“Are you comfortable Professor Fox?”

A man walked into her line of vision. He was tall and thin, so thin that the bones in his face poked sharply from his pasty skin. His hair was brown and long and shaggy; his clothes were as covered in blood as Sydney was. Around his neck, he wore an amulet embossed with a grinning skull. Even haggard and stained, Sydney recognized the man in front of her immediately.

“Alec Ryan,” she whispered.

“Yes, Alec Ryan.” He smiled. “I'm afraid that reports of my death have been extremely exaggerated.” 

“You killed Carmen Facey.”

“A sacrifice to the death we all live for. She is now at perfect peace.”

“And you killed Morgan as well. Why? I don't understand.”

Ryan came closer. As he approached Sydney, he drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. Thoughtfully, he ran a finger along its blade. 

“They served their purpose.” Gently, he reached out and caressed Sydney's jaw with the knife. The feel of the cold steel turned her blood to ice. She didn't even dare to struggle, afraid that any movement she made would drive the edge into her throat. “As have you.”

“You got what you want. You've got the amulet. There was no need to kill Morgan. And there's no need to kill me.”

“Need? But there is a need, Sydney. Don't you see?” The knife slid down her neck until it softly kissed her collarbone. “All of us, we have a need. It's in our bones and in our flesh. Our poor spirits cry for release, and the only true release is death. Death is the most holy experience, and our bodies know it. Our spirits need it.” 

Understanding dawned on Sydney. “You're trying to bring it back. All your life, you've studied The Group of Ten, and now you want reality to replace your fantasy.”

“Yes,” he said in excitement, his blade slightly parting her skin along the top of her vest in his enthusiasm. She drew in her breath sharply at the sting but dared not move otherwise. Warm blood followed the path his blade had traveled seconds before. She could feel it trickle down her skin until it slid under her vest somewhere near her shoulder. “Now there is only one, but with this,” his other hand clutched at the amulet, “I will be able to bring us to full strength once more. My brothers dreamed of using the amulet to free hundreds from their bodies at a time, but they failed to find it. I...I have succeeded!”

Sydney continued to hold her breath as the tip of the knife made its way up the other side of her vest. She had no idea how she was going to get out of this one. She tried to remain calm and make her brain work, but all she could think about were the mutilated bodies of Carmen and Morgan.

“I'm going to enjoy killing you,” Ryan said conversationally, “You have such a strong spirit. It must be yearning to break free of your flesh...But where to start? Do you have any preferences?”

“I suppose it would be too much to ask that you shove that blade into your own eye.” She was surprised at how defiant her voice was.

“I would love to die,” his features turned sorrowful, “but I have unfinished work. I must live to help others find the path to enlightenment.”

“I'm sure you must,” she said sarcastically as he clasped the zipper of her vest.

His hands shook with anticipation, and Sydney was sure she was dead. There was no way out.

Then a loud yell echoed through the chamber. Alec Ryan whirled, and Sydney strained to lift her head. In disbelief, she saw a body fly at Ryan, tackling the thin man to the floor. The knife was knocked from his hand but still lay within reach as he struggled to dislodge the man who had attacked him.

Sydney's eyes widened as she recognized the slight form trying to overpower Ryan. “Nigel.”

Even with all the flesh gone from his bones, the cult wannabe was bigger and stronger than the Englishman. All it would take was Alec's hand grasping the knife for Nigel to be dead.

A horrible fear squeezed at Sydney's heart. She was more frightened now than she had been the whole time Ryan had taunted her. Her mind filled with images of Nigel trussed up and destroyed like the madman's other victims. Holding down panic, she fought against her restraints. They cut into her flesh but remained as unyielding as the stone she lay on. She pulled and struggled with all her strength, but it did no good.

Helplessly, she watched Nigel's battle to the death. Her eyes locked on the two figures in front of her, unable to look away. A feeling in the pit of her stomach made her more ill than all the blood she had encountered on this hunt. Frantically, her hands continued to jerk against her bonds of their own accord. Somewhere in the back of her mind, this had always been one of her most feared nightmares—being powerless to protect Nigel when his life was at stake.

“Nigel!” she shouted again, a desperate cry of helpless need.

Nigel and Ryan continued to struggle. Nigel was on top, his body pressing Ryan into the hard floor. His hands caught at his opponent's flailing wrists, trying to trap them.

Ryan was wiggling like a wild thing. One of his hands came up and struck Nigel. To Sydney, it looked as if this was more by accident than design. Stunned, Nigel paused, giving Ryan time to shift his body weight and shove Nigel violently to the side.

The Englishman tumbled, and Ryan reached for the knife. Sydney watched in horror as his fingertips brushed the hilt.

Nigel gave a desperate kick, catching Ryan in the ribs. The scholar gasped at the pain but completed his motion. Grabbing the knife, he rose, snarling. 

Nigel had also managed to get to his feet, and for one instant the two of them stood there, staring at each other silently, their eyes locked.

Sydney felt her heart wither in her chest. Nigel was going to die. She was certain that Ryan would slice him open, spilling out his life, and it was all her fault. He had followed her here, and now both of them were doomed. What hurt the most was that there was nothing she could do to save him.

Ryan lunged at Nigel, and the Englishman just barely managed to avoid the blade. His face was white and pinched with fear, but there was also determination and anger stamped on his features.

As Ryan lunged a second time, Nigel ducked again, just a hair's breadth from having the blade slash his eyes. He stumbled backwards, slipping slightly in a pool of congealed blood. Ryan pressed his attack, trying once more for Nigel's face.

Nigel put up his arm and turned, taking just the tip of the knife through his shirt and skin. Then, he kicked at Ryan's kneecap.

It was Ryan's turn to stumble, and Nigel took the opportunity to reach forward and rip La Mort Rapide from his neck. Ryan gave a furious howl and slashed at Nigel with hatred in his cold eyes.

In a move that surprised Sydney into expelling the breath she had been holding, Nigel dropped and used his leg to sweep Ryan to the floor. The man tumbled and sprawled on his back.

Nigel was on him in a second, trying to wrench the knife from his grip. He was able to beat Ryan's wrist against the floor several times, but the scholar held onto the knife desperately. 

Ryan twisted, trying to dislodge Nigel. Nigel fell forward but held onto Ryan as tightly as Ryan held onto the knife.

The two men still hadn't said a word to each other. Their fight, besides the sound of the scuffle, was a completely silent one.

Nigel, intent on Ryan's knife hand, didn't see the man's other hand coming up. It buried in Nigel's hair, pulling with all Ryan's might. Nigel cried out, releasing his grip on Ryan's wrist.

The knife slashed upward, but Nigel rolled sideways and, once more, the knife bit only air. 

Ryan let go of Nigel's hair and quickly got to his knees. As he did so, Nigel twirled the amulet by its chain and caught Ryan in the eye. He cursed loudly and made a vicious swipe for Nigel's throat.

Nigel stopped Ryan's arm with his own injured one, and threw a punch with his other. Ryan grunted, but before he had time to react, Nigel punched him again. This one landed directly on Ryan's nose, and a sickening crunch echoed through the chamber.

The knife dropped from Ryan's fingers, and his hands went to his face. He screamed in pain, and blood gushed into his cupped hands.

Nigel scrambled to grab the knife. He swung it swiftly, whamming the solid hilt into his opponent's temple. Ryan went rigid, then suddenly collapsed bonelessly.

Nigel struggled to his feet; the knife fell to the floor. In his hand, he held La Mort Rapide. He continued to clutch it as he left Ryan's motionless body and cried her name.

“Sydney!”

He tottered slightly as he approached the dais, his face full of terror.

“Nigel!” She found herself answering, once more struggling to free her hands. She was desperate to make sure he was unhurt.

“So much blood,” he said brokenly, touching her lightly. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not mine, Nigel,” she assured him, watching as he reached to undo her hands. His own hands were shaking, and his face was white.

Sydney sat up as soon as her hands were free and suddenly found herself in Nigel's arms. Despite her being covered in Morgan's blood, he held her so close that she could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He buried his face in her hair, the trembling in his hands taking over his whole body.

“I was so afraid I'd be too late.”

“I'm all right. It's fine,” she said, putting her own arms around him. “Are you okay? I thought...” 

A surprised tingle went through her as she suddenly felt his lips touch her neck. Instinct made her bring a hand up and bury it in his hair. When she offered no protest, he kissed her again, this time more firmly.

“Nigel?”

The kisses moved up, making the tingle spread. They went along her jaw, then brushed her cheek and her temple. 

Sydney was so stunned, she couldn't react. She just continued clutching him, reliving her fear that Ryan would overpower and kill him.

But he hadn't. Nigel was real and solid in her arms. Alive.

When he had slowly and gently filled her face with kisses, Nigel pulled away slightly and looked into her eyes. Her dearest friend had streaks of blood on his face and soaking into his blue silk shirt. It was on his hands and in his hair where her fingers had woven through the strands.

His eyes were still dark with fear, and she wanted to wash it away. Her lips fought to smile, to reassure him. When they just couldn't do it, she reached out her hand and brought him close, placing her forehead on his.

“I'm never letting you go on a hunt by yourself again, Syd. Never. Never. Never. Never.”

He pulled away and wiped damp, blood caked hair from her face with a gentle and still trembling hand. The backs of his fingers lingered on her cheek for a moment.

This time, the smile came—a somewhat wobbly and faint turning up of the corners of her mouth. Nigel's lips brushed the left corner lightly before he turned to begin on her foot restraints.

Feeling suddenly lost without contact, Sydney leaned forward and firmly placed a hand on his back. Her mind, coming back from the horror it had experienced, started to wonder what Nigel's kisses meant. They had known each other for a long time, and he had seen her in danger too many times to count. She had heard him cry out for her desperately and felt him clutch her to him and saw his face go white with shock and fear. But in all that time, he had never kissed her. Not once.

She was still reflecting on this when another thought hit her. Nigel shouldn't be there. She had left him asleep in his bed with no idea about Turnbull's notes or where she was going.

“How did you find me?”

Nigel glanced at her over his shoulder. She was surprised at how haggard his face looked. It seemed to have aged decades since she had kissed it just that morning. His hazel eyes were solemn as he considered her question. She watched as the torchlight flickered over his pale features, waiting for him to speak.

“I followed you,” he said quietly. “When I woke and found you gone, I went to see Turnbull...”

“Did he give you a copy of the notes?”

“Not exactly.” Nigel's eyes grew even more shadowed. “I think he's dead.”

“What?”

He began to describe the scene at Turnbull's house. Ghosts of emotions flitted over his face with the tale, making Sydney ache for him.

“Oh, Nigel.”

“For a moment, I even thought it might be...” He trailed off, and his eyes dropped from her face. As her mind filled in what Nigel couldn't say, Sydney moved her hand from his back to squeeze his arm.

He put a hand over hers briefly before returning to his task. It was with relief that she felt the last of the ties release its hold on her. Slowly, she rotated both of her ankles before swinging her legs around to hang off of the dais.

Nigel silently held out the chain he had clutched in his fingers. She took it from him, letting her fingers brush his as she did so. She couldn't believe that he had followed her there. His concern was the only reason she was still alive. 

“Thank you,” she said, hoping he knew that she meant it for so much more than the medallion.

He smiled, some of the light coming back into his eyes. “Any time, Syd.”

She moved forward and slid off the dais. When her feet touched the floor, her knees trembled and tried to buckle. If Nigel hadn't caught her, she would have fallen. His arm slipped around her waist, holding her tightly.

“Okay?” he asked.

“My legs are a little cramped from being in the same position for too long,” she answered, putting her own arms around him.

“Can you walk? We should probably get out of here and get a head start on alerting the authorities before our mad professor awakens.”

“Are you kidding? I'd jump out a window and fly to get out of here if I had to.”

Sydney felt his breath on her cheek as he chuckled softly. He gave her body a slight squeeze before releasing her. Her legs still trembled slightly, but she was standing on her own with no problems.

“Nigel,” she said as they began to make their way towards the door, which now stood open. She was going to ask why it hadn't closed behind him. Instead, she heard herself saying, “You kissed me.”

“I did not,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes, you did. I remember it distinctly.”

“You were imagining things.”

“Nigel!”

“Hurry now.” He took her hand and gave it a tug. “I don't know hard I hit him. He could wake up at any time.”

Knowing he was right, Sydney dropped the subject—but she didn't let go of his hand.


	8. Epilogue

Sydney sneezed and groaned, reaching for another tissue. It was so unfair! She never got sick. Even so, here she was, curled up on Nigel's couch, wrapped in a crocheted afghan and surrounded by used and unused tissue, cold medication, a thermometer, and a cup of very hot tea.

The cold had manifested when they got back to London. After their adventure, they had seen Alec Ryan taken in by the authorities and then stayed overnight in Fleuve de Sange. Then next day saw them in Paris donating La Mort Rapide to the city's most prestigious museum. Another night had been spent there, then the two tired relic hunters went back to Nigel's. That was when the sneezing and the fever set in.

Nigel had been fussing over Sydney like an old mother hen for three days. She complained to him loudly about it, but secretly she was enjoying it. At home, no one but Karen would have cared that she wasn't feeling well, and she doubted her secretary's ministrations would have gone further than a bowl of soup and a phone call.

Almost as if the thought of him had conjured him, Nigel came into the room with a tray in his hands. On it was a bowl of something that steamed and smelled delicious—what smell could get through Sydney's poor plugged nostrils.

“Up for some lunch?” he asked, putting the tray on the coffee table and sitting beside her.

“I think so,” she said, hating how her voice sounded so dumb and sluggish.

“I wouldn't want my soup to go to waste. I don't cook for just anyone, you know.”

“I'm honoured.”

“Good.” He then looked at her keenly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, actually. I'm still stuffed up and coughy, but my throat doesn't hurt anymore, and my headache's gone.”

“Promise me that next time you go wandering around London in a downpour, you'll wear your jacket.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I promise, Mom.”

Sydney let the afghan fall open enough to free one of her hands so she could eat her soup. She leaned forward, reaching for the spoon, and stopped.

“What is it?” Nigel asked, the concern clear in his voice.

Something had been running through Sydney's mind since Nigel had rescued her. While recovering from her cold, she'd had lots of time to think, and the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. She had to ask the question. It would make her happy, and she was hopeful that it would make Nigel happy as well.

She turned to face him so she could read his expression. “In the sacrifice room, in the castle, when you didn't kiss me, you said you would never let me go on a hunt alone again. Did you mean that?”

His face pinkened slightly, but he said seriously, “You're stuck with me, Syd. Even if it means you don't want me and I have to follow you around.”

“Of course I want you, Nigel.” It came without thought, causing her to flinch at the double meaning. 

“That will make things easier.”

She looked in his eyes, pleased to see no hint of fun had yet entered them. “I'm really glad you said that because I need to ask you something.”

His face turned slightly wary. “You do?”

Sydney nodded. “But it would mean moving back to the States and working with me again. Sylvia Redgrave has just retired, and the Ancient Studies department needs someone to take her place. The Dean actually asked me if I thought you'd be interested, but I knew you had already settled into your life he...”

“You want me to teach at Trinity?” he blurted, cutting her off. “In your department?”

“Yes, and that way, we'd be free to...”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, it's up to you, Nigel, but I'd love to work with you again.”

There was a sudden spark in his eyes, and a smile slowly spread over his face. She had rarely seen him look so happy, and it confirmed that asking him had been the right thing to do.

“Where do I sign up?”

Sydney smiled back. “All I need is a yes from you and, with a quick call to the Dean, your place will be reserved for September.”

Nigel uncharacteristically drew her forward and wrapped her in a firm hug. She returned it with the arm not trapped in the afghan. With an almost audible wrench, Sydney felt everything that had been going so wrong during the hunt suddenly start going right again.

She hugged him even tighter, saying softly, “I'm so glad you agreed to come home.”

“Me too.” Nigel's lips gently brushed her temple. “It never felt right, being so far away.”

Sydney warmed at the touch. “I suppose you didn't just kiss me now, did you, Nigel Bailey?”

He pulled away, a look of mock surprise on his face. “Of course not.”

She was about to chastise him for lying when another sneeze overtook her. Nigel's expression changed, and he waved a hand at the soup.

“Eat before it gets cold.”

She sighed and once more let it go. There would be time to ask about it later, as much time as she needed. It was almost too good to believe, but Nigel was really coming home.

Her stomach rumbled, and she reached for the spoon again with one hand. She untangled the other to pat his knee. “You are way too good to me.”

“That's what friends are for,” he said simply.


End file.
